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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579787">Margin of Error</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaultdweller/pseuds/Vaultdweller'>Vaultdweller</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Politics, F/F, Medium Burn, Political Campaigns, Setting this one in Florida again, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:56:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaultdweller/pseuds/Vaultdweller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Villanelle is a scandal-prone politician mounting a comeback by running for mayor. Eve runs a high-power PR firm and is her Director of Communications for the campaign. What could go wrong?</p>
<p>(Everything)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Margin of Error</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! Am I really starting a new story before finishing my other two? Yes. Is this a mistake? Maybe. </p>
<p>This isn't meant to be a political documentary. There are other fics that do that much better (cough Guillotine Hums cough). This is more about, the spirit of politics and the campaign. And the absurdity. </p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>January 21</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>287 days until Election Day</b>
</p>
<p>The clock on Eve’s phone slides forward by one minute. 4:30 to 4:31. The most movement her eyes have detected in, well, the last whole minute. Time drips on, like drops from a leaky sink. Drip. Drip. Drip. Onto Eve’s forehead, like some sort of water torture. Was that actual water, instead of figurative? Was their ceiling leaking? Did someone stuff up the toilet above them again? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>4:32. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eve’s eyes slide to her laptop screen, empty Google Calendar broadcast in stark 4K resolution. A barren, tiered wasteland of meetings and calls that could be, with the click of a button, but were not. Schrödinger's jobs. The days stretch on like that for the next week, but Eve knows it’s more like months. There’s nothing to be had outside the limits of the screen. Clicking the arrow, advancing time like a rat in a Skinner Box, will bring no relief. No rain to her parched prospects. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>4:33. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eve tips her phone screen up from the desk, face recognition catching an undoubtedly unflattering view that, insultingly, looks enough like her to unlock. For the first time since, well, since everyone started carrying around iPhones, her home screen is void of new notifications. The trifecta - texts, voicemails, emails - all at a big, honking zero. Goose egg. Zilch. </p>
<p>4:33 hangs around much longer than it should. Time, seconds and milliseconds suspended, vibrating like a note fading in an echo chamber. It’s trying to tell her something. </p>
<p>It’s time to call in the <strong>Big Guns</strong>. </p>
<p>Reaching for her desk phone, Eve presses and holds down a button. </p>
<p>“Elena — call in the Big Guns.”</p>
<p>“Aye aye, captain.” </p>
<p>Through the speaker, Eve listens to the phone ring once. Twice. Three times. </p>
<p>He’s fucking with her. He knows. </p>
<p>On the fourth ring, finally, Bill’s voice cuts on. </p>
<p>“Finally decided to call in the Big Guns, eh Eve?” </p>
<p>“Hello to you too, Bill.” </p>
<p>“Oh don’t get huffy,” he chides. Despite herself, Eve smiles. “What’s today? The 20th? 21st? You lasted longer than I thought you would.” </p>
<p>“You know me Bill,” Eve says. “I don’t like to use my connection in the upper echelons of the DNC unless I have to.” </p>
<p>“Upper echelon? That sounds sexy. I like that a lot more than boring old ‘senior campaign strategist.’ Seriously, who wants to be called ‘senior’ anything? Might as well call me a dinosaur.” </p>
<p>“Relic is more like it,” Eve goads. “That at least has some dignity.” </p>
<p>“Relic,” Bill tries. “I like that. I take it your calendar dried up?” </p>
<p>“Dry as a witch’s tit,” she answers. “Is that even an expression? Who cares. Even my mother doesn’t want to see me. Vanilla Ice is probably booking more meetings than I am.” </p>
<p>“And he will be, because I don’t have anyone for you.” </p>
<p>“What?” Eve asks, sitting up in her chair. It creaks as she leans forward, like if she gets close enough to the phone she can look Bill in the eyes to tell if he’s lying. </p>
<p>“I don’t,” Bill starts. Takes a breath. “I don’t have anyone for you.” </p>
<p>“You’re telling me,” Eve says, slowly. “There’s not a single person running for the House or the Senate as a Democrat in the entire country? Is that what you’re telling me, Bill? Because if it is, you’ve got a big fucking problem come November 4th.” </p>
<p>“That is … not what I’m telling you.” </p>
<p>“Ah, okay,” she says. “Well then, some clarity would be appreciated.” </p>
<p>“You’re going to make me say it?” </p>
<p>Eve stays silent. Waits to hear what she already knows. Maybe if it comes from a friend, from Bill, it won’t hurt so much. </p>
<p>On the other hand, hearing it from Bill makes it real. No more pretending it’s all some coincidence. Pretending everyone in her network is just on an extended holiday vacation stretching almost into February instead of frantically preparing for the campaign season ahead. Pretending no one cared about her last fuckup of a client, who helped blow their chance at the House majority in a towering, swirling inferno of fire and smoke and shit. Maybe she should hang up right now and go back to living in that reality. Maybe she should just close up shop and start over in a less stressful field. Flower farming seems nice. The flowers do all the work, you just sit back and watch. </p>
<p>Bill answers before she can end the call. </p>
<p>“You’re damaged goods, okay. After last time … no one here wants you anywhere near a race that might mean something. Which, considering how tight the margins are, is all of them.” </p>
<p>“That’s not fair,” Eve interjects. </p>
<p>“That seat was in play! Everyone was watching. It wasn’t the only one, sure, but it was up there.” </p>
<p>“Come on,” Eve tries. “Who hasn’t had a candidate get a DUI right before polls open?” </p>
<p>“It wasn’t the DUI that was the problem, Eve,” Bill retorts. “It was when he went on all the morning shows, going on a bender about how, and I quote, ‘crack dealers from the ghetto’ are treated better than he was in jail. And that, actually, building a wall between us and Mexico might not be a bad idea after all. That really went over well with our core demographics, as you can imagine.” </p>
<p>“There’s only so much I can do with what I’m given,” Eve fires back. “The guy was a venture capitalist! He goes against literally everything we stand for! Where does the DNC find these freaks anyway?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Silence. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is that really the tack you want to take here, Eve?” Bill answers, level. Calm. A man who has the upper hand and knows it. “Do you think that will get you what you want?” </p>
<p>Eve swallows. Chews her lip. Something clings to the back of her throat. Gets its claws in. Acceptance, probably. The rushing reality she spent the last year denying. It all catches up to you. The longer you deny it, the stronger the flood. </p>
<p>“No,” she says. Croaks, really. “No it’s not.” </p>
<p>“Listen to me, Eve. You know I love you.” </p>
<p>Eve grumbles into her hands. </p>
<p>“Stop that, you know I do. This is what you’re going to do — you’re going to take a sabbatical. A sexy sabbatical somewhere with beautiful beaches. Maybe on the Mediterranean. Find a young, hot blonde to have a fling with. Forget about this place for a while. Let someone else fuck up and make a name for themselves. Then, next summer, come back to the Beltway just as we all realize how much we need you. Riding in like a hero, ready for a cycle that really matters, with the presidency on the line.” </p>
<p>“That’s great, Bill, how am I supposed to keep my house? I have a chicken to feed, you know.” </p>
<p>“You do?” </p>
<p>“Well,” Eve says, stalling. “I did. Niko got it in the divorce.” </p>
<p>“And do you split custody of this chicken?” Bill asks. “Do you pay child support?” </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>“Ah, see I was so close to helping you, and then you had to go lie.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah yeah, whatever,” Eve says. She opens a new tab in her browser and types ‘s<em>abbatical </em> ’ into the search bar, then backspaces and instead goes with ‘s<em>exy sabbatical </em>.’ </p>
<p>“I know what you charge. I know you have plenty squirrelled away to live on. Let the kids in your office do some consulting or research to keep them busy.” </p>
<p>“You know,” Eve says, scrolling through Google Images. “Ibiza doesn’t look half bad.”</p>
<p>“That’s the spirit,” he says. “Get out of here. This isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyways. DC is miserable in the winter. Go find some sun.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Eve answers, absently. The water is so <em> blue </em> and the sand so <em> white. </em>She can hardly believe they make places so beautiful. And that she's spent so long in this logjam of concrete and traffic and partisan spats instead of exploring them. “Maybe I will.” </p>
<p>“Good. Call me after you book a flight.” </p>
<p>The line goes dead, but Eve’s attention is elsewhere. Not on the images in front of her, necessarily, but on the idea of it. Could she just leave? What if this is all just a mirage that collapses into itself as soon as she looks away? Would that be so terrible? </p>
<p>If nothing else, this bizarre new habit of asking herself strings of unanswerable, existential questions really should signal to Eve that she definitely needs a vacation at least, an entire life realignment at worst. </p>
<p>How hard is it to become Amish? </p>
<p>Just as she’s about to call up Expedia and book a flight to Ibiza, Elena’s voice cuts in through the phone intercom. </p>
<p>“Eve? I have Oksana Astankova on the phone. She wants to speak to you about a campaign.” </p>
<p>“Oksana who?” Eve asks. The name seems familiar but she just can’t place …</p>
<p>“Senate race in Florida. Four years ago. You were on the Reynolds campaign. She was the state rep who dropped out before the primary.” </p>
<p>Oh. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Oh.  </em>
</p>
<p>Eve remembers now. Because Oksana hadn’t just dropped out. She’d been forced to abandon her run entirely after she’d been caught sexting the wife of the very stern, very Republican, House Speaker, Raymond Coolidge. They’d leaked to the press, were pasted all over the morning shows and Twitter. Eve was focused on her own campaign, but it had been brutal, certainly not helped by Raymond’s press conference, wife in tow, where he called Oksana a “lesbian menace” and threatened to chase her out if she ever set foot anywhere inside the state capitol ever again. </p>
<p>And now that exact Oksana Astankova was calling her. About a campaign. </p>
<p>Fucking great. </p>
<p>“Should I tell her you’re busy or —”</p>
<p>“No, Elena, it’s fine,” Eve answers. Then, for reasons wholly unknown to her, “Send her through.” </p>
<p>The phone rings immediately. Taking a breath, Eve picks up the receiver, preferring to keep this conversation off speaker and away from eavesdroppers. </p>
<p>“This is Eve Polastri. How can I help you?” </p>
<p>“Hello Eve,” a voice floats through the other end. Sultry. Russian, if she remembers right. “It is nice to speak to you again.” </p>
<p>It’s all coming back to Eve now. They’d only crossed paths briefly on the campaign trail before Oksana’s … mishap, but she’d made an impression. Cool. Suave, Confidence that always seemed to land on the wrong side of insufferable. </p>
<p>“Oksana,” Eve says, clipped. “My question stands - how can I help you?” </p>
<p>“Right to the point I see,” Oksana chuckles. “Alright then. I am running for mayor of Tallahassee. And I want you to be my director of communications.” </p>
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